A Breath of Romance, A Twist of Despair
by Lillielle
Summary: Disclaimer: I own nothing. A drabble/one-shot collection for the Pairing Set Boot Camp Challenge. 50 stories, 50 pairings.
1. The World Burned

_Notes: This collection is for the Pairing Set Boot Camp Challenge. I am clearly insane, because I want to do all fifty pairings. Stories will be marked individually for warnings. Onward!_

He never meant for any of this to happen.

He clung to his ideals like a drowning man, watching Gellert twist and warp, watching his love change into something unrecognisable. It couldn't be happening, and yet it was.

"You know what you have to do," they said, but what did they know? He wasn't a monster. Neither of them were.

But the smirk that twisted Gellert's face, the laugh that shredded his throat, tore holes into Albus's heart, ripped his pretty, precious words into a handful of confetti and a whisper of smoke-wreathed Europe.

"I know what I have to do," he said, but the words died before they ever brushed against Gellert's ears, and he stood by once more and did nothing. The world burned. All was fire and desolation and still, he stood. And when Gellert returned, exulted, his robes dipped in blood and his fingers crackling with poisonous green fire, Albus kissed him, tasting the sweet poison of his lips and drawing him tight against his body. Gellert's magic corroded his, but still, he could not stop.

Ariana's blood dripped from his fingers, stained his soul, but even this wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough.

"I love you," Gellert whispered brokenly in his ear, clutching at him with hands like claws. "I love you, I'm sorry, don't leave me, don't leave me."

"I will never leave you," Albus whispered back and he knew, in the most shadowed corners of his heart, that it was true.

The two stood together, and the world shattered.


	2. An Interlude With Potions

"Use your mind," he chides, in that obnoxiously affectionate way he has, and you crinkle your nose at him, torn between thwacking him with a stirring rod and kissing his overly bristled cheek.

"That's not the problem," you complain, waving the stirring rod about in the air like your wand, droplets of stray potion splattering the table top with a light hissing sound. "The problem is _your_ directions, they're bloody senseless! You don't even _need_ sunflower seeds for this potion!"

"Or do you?" he smirks, and returns to his newspaper. You can feel his gaze on you still, though, as you ponder the scribbled directions, the strong slashes of his handwriting giving you a slight fizzy feeling in your stomach.

"All right, fine," you decide aloud. "Sunflower seeds it is," and you drop the required three into the concoction as he watches. It turns a muddy brown and acquires the consistency of your last attempt at soup, and you sigh, letting the stirring rod fall to the table with a clatter.

"You forgot a step," he reminds you, almost gently, rising from his chair and setting his newspaper aside. "There, see? You have to stir counter-clockwise three times and _then_ add the sunflower seeds."

"Oh," you say, flustered.

"Take a break," he commands, tugging you closer. You squeak in surprise as you land against his chest, cradled against him in a blur of soft black robes.

"Yes, sir," you whisper, the familiar mischievous light coming to your eyes, as his mouth slants over yours. He has the faintest traces of coffee on his breath, but mostly, he just tastes like _him_, and you gasp against his mouth as his tongue slides and tangles with your own. His hands fist in your bushy brown hair, and you whimper.

"Bedroom?" he pants and you nod, the useless potion already forgotten.

It can always be re-done tomorrow, you think as the bedroom door shuts behind you, and the scholarly side of your mind shuts off.

_Plenty_ of time for that tomorrow.


	3. The Lull Before The Storm

He kisses her forehead, pulling her against him for a proper kiss. She giggles and playfully taps him on the nose.

"You'll squish the baby!" she chides, holding up the aforementioned infant for inspection. Harry giggles and waves a chubby fist, beaming at his father.

"I could never squish him," James declares, bending down and blowing raspberries on the uncovered tummy. Lily smiles above the tableau. Her hair ribbons have become askew, and she can feel one slowly slipping from her hair, but she can't seem to mind. This is worth it.

"What did Albus say?" Lily finally asks, serious as she sets Harry down in his playpen and turns back to her dinner preparations.

"He's looking for us," James admits, his voice rough as he scrubs a hand over his hair. "Sniv-Severus has bought us some time. But there's only so much he can do."

"He'll never suspect Peter, will he?" Lily stirs the mashed potatoes harder than she needs to, biting her bottom lip. "I don't-I don't want to think of Peter under the Cruciatus curse, James. Or worse..." her voice falters. James comes up behind her, squeezing her shoulders gently in support.

"He won't," James reassures her, kissing her neck. "We'll be fine. When You Know Who is defeated, maybe-maybe we'll go abroad. Paris or something. Even America! Harry would like to see America, I bet."

"You mean, you would," Lily laughs, setting aside the wooden spoon for a moment and tying her hair back up so that stray tendrils will stop sticking to her face and so when she picks up her adventurous infant once more, he will not try the usual trick of stuffing her hair into his mouth.

"So?" James strikes his irrepressible grin, and Lily can't help but smile back, despite the shroud of worry.

"Dinner's ready," she tells him, carrying the mashed potatoes to the table and motioning for him to retrieve Harry. The calendar above the playpen flaps a bit as James picks up his one-year-old son and holds him close for a moment.

It reads October 30, 1981.


	4. Obsession

"I want to hold you close  
Soft breath, beating heart  
As I whisper in your ear  
I want to fucking tear you apart" (She Wants Revenge)

He was obsessed with her.

The sweet, perfumed tendrils of her hair, the ethereal, delicate face. The dark grey eyes, snapping with disdain. She was beautiful. Brilliant. All he could have ever wanted.

And he was obsessed with her.

She wanted nothing to do with him, of course. He expected that. A maiden, locked away in her tower, so to speak. Free to wander among the rest of the students, but how could a daughter of one of the school's Founders achieve true freedom of expression?

She rebuffed all of his advances, but that was okay. She told him that she wanted nothing to do with him, but he merely smiled and brushed it off. He could wait. She'd change her mind.

When she left Hogwarts, he was devastated. He tried to follow, but he couldn't find her. Not this time. Nor the times after that. He returned time and again, heart-sore and lost, with not so much as a whisper of her whereabouts on his lips. Rowena acted as though all was well, but he knew better. He could see the strain around her eyes, the way her mouth tightened with regrets.

Finally, Rowena called him to her. Go after her, she told him, weak, her breath shallow and rasping. Find her. Find my daughter.

Your wish is my command, he stated with a flourished bow. Inside, his heart leaped for the first moment in weeks. Now. He even had her mother's blessing. Surely, she couldn't scorn him now.

He followed her trace, faint and broken as it was. Albania. A wretched country. There, in the midst of the gloomiest forest it had ever been his misfortune to step into, she stood. Beautiful. Radiant.

"Come back with me," he entreated. She was his. She must say yes. He held his breath, certain of the answer from the pale radiance before him. She tossed back her hair and looked at him, eyes limpid.

"No," she said, and the world went red.

She would be his. No matter what anyone else said.

Even her.


	5. A Breath of Magic

He can't be an arse around her.

The haughty tilt of his head, the sneering words that spring so readily to his lips, they all vanish when he sees her, the gently reproving glint in those placid grey eyes, the way she tosses her hair until it floats about her shoulders, a shimmering pale cloud that reminds him of his own.

His friends tease him, pointing out he's dating Loony. She's barmy, didn't you know? Absolutely bonkers.

He sighs and shrugs and finally turns on them, eyes like frosted steel, as he tells them to lay off her. She's his, and that's the end of it, and if he hears one more word about how she's tricked him with one of her imaginary bloody Nargles, he will find a way to reverse that person's internal organs, and it will be the slowest death they've ever dreamed of.

The sickly faces staring back at him after that pronouncement amuse him, and he shares the tale later, discreetly edited, when he is curled up with Luna by the fireplace in the Room of Requirement. She only sighs and shakes her head, but he can see the ghost of a smile lingering over her lips, and it soothes him.

"You worry too much about what other people think," she tells him and kisses the corner of his mouth. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is what you think of yourself."

"Tell that to Father," Draco snorts, only slightly self-deprecating. Luna's mouth turns up into a full-blown smile, full of sprite-like mischief.

"I will," she promises, and kisses him.

When they hold hands in the corridors, people stare. Once or twice Harry Potter has come up, looking as if he's dying to say something, dying to insult or threaten Draco, but one look from Luna, and he wanders off again, fingering his wand and giving Draco malicious looks out of the corners of those vivid green eyes. He doesn't care. The old, bitter rivalry has evaporated like smoke, blown away by the gently pursed lips of the ethereal Ravenclaw. Perhaps he should mind, but he can't.

"Come with me," she says one day, tugging his hand and leading him down this corridor and that, past dusty suits of armour and cracked paintings.

"Where are we?" he asks, his voice hushed. She stops before a simple wooden door and whispers to it, stroking it with long, pale fingers, until it creaks open.

"A place of magic," she smiles, and pulls him in.

He looks around, feeling more than a bit over-awed. Despite the obvious age of the room, it is clean, well taken care of. The light is warm and mellow, spilling through broad windows. Enormous pictures of Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin dominate the walls, where the bookcases don't take care of them, that is.

"Is this..." he asks, and she entwines her fingers tighter with his.

"I don't know," she answers simply. "But it's _beautiful,_ isn't it?" He has to concur.

"Dance with me?" she requests, swaying to the music only she can hear. He hesitates, then sighs and steps into the waltz she has created.

For a moment, he swears he can hear the music with her.


	6. Sexxy Kittens

He ducked into the club, barely registering the name that flashed in bright pink letters. _Sexxy Kittens._ All James cared about in that moment was getting away from his younger brother, Albus, who was hell-bent on giving him a dose of his own medicine.

"And who might you be?" he heard at his elbow. Whirling, he confronted a girl who looked approximately his own age, with bright red hair that rivaled a Weasley's, and mischievous blue eyes.

Said girl was also only wearing thong panties and spangled pasties over her nipples.

For all his suavity, James had only seen a girl this close to nude once, when he'd nearly completed the deed with Lesley Nott before Professor Longbottom caught them, and handed out detentions.

"James," he managed to say, the word nearly sticking in his throat. "And you?"

"Candi," she said, running her tongue across her teeth in a way that had James' pants growing tight. "I haven't seen you before."

"I ah-where am I anyway?" he stammered, his cheeks turning red.

She pointed upwards to the flashing pink sign right above his head.

"Sexxy Kittens," she offered helpfully, the amused glint in her eyes growing stronger. "You know. A strip club?"

"What?" he squeaked.

"Are you sure you're old enough to be here?" Candi asked, raking her gaze up and down him.

"Of course!" he insisted. And he was-wasn't he? He'd turned seventeen last week. Close enough. He wasn't a _child_, the way her deprecating smirk seemed to suggest.

"Sure," Candi said, turning and sashaying her way further into the star-dimmed room. "Enjoy the show...James."

And he would have, had Albus not slammed open the door and run head-long into him, making him lose his balance and nearly upset a potted plant. He was sure he could hear Candi laughing, but not for long as his younger brother dragged him out, lecturing him about the 'grievous sin' he had committed, and that he should know better than to go into such places, 'what would mum and dad think.'

And all he could think was that he couldn't wait to come back and see Candi's show for real.

He was looking forward to it.


	7. Acceptance

"Slytherin!" the Hat shouts, and Albus Severus is both relieved and disappointed as he hands the grubby hat back and walks to his new table on trembling legs. The Malfoy boy smiles at him, and he manages a hesitant quirk of his lips back. He knows James is disappointed, can feel his disapproval from across the Hall, but when "Malfoy, Scorpius" smiles at him, he feels like he can do anything.

"You're not a true Potter," James scowls at him the next morning as he slips into the Great Hall, his heart tripping beneath the green-and-silver tie.

"You heard what Dad said," Albus retorts. "It doesn't matter where I'm Sorted."

"That's before he knew you were a Snake," James sneers, and stalks off, surrounded by his bevy of friends. Albus stands there, his shoulders slumped, as he wills himself not to cry. A hand falls on his shoulder and he whirls, defensive.

"He'll come around," Scorpius offers.

"Yeah," Albus nods, but he's not so sure. When James makes up his mind on something, he doesn't like to change it. Even when Mum and Dad yell at him.

"Wanna sit next to me?" Scorpius asks, and Albus grins.

"Yes," he says gratefully, following the blonde-haired boy to the Slytherin table.

When he goes home for Christmas break, Harry and Ginny hug him and kiss him and reassure him that they don't mind him being Sorted into Slytherin. That they don't mind him becoming mates with Scorpius Malfoy. It's all right, it's okay, and he can see James brooding in the background, but for once, he doesn't mind.

And so on and so forth, the years pass until he finds himself nervous and tongue-tied, stumbling through the worst proposal for a date he has ever come up with, to the silver-eyed Scorpius, his cheeks flushed and his hands sweaty. Scorpius laughs and pulls him closer, kissing the corner of his mouth with sweet, tremulous intensity.

"I thought you'd never ask," Scorpius says and kisses him properly, a tangle of lips and tongues and teeth that leaves the both of them breathless.

They keep it a secret at first, both too shy to explain to their respective families, but the cat is let out of the bag when someone sees them snogging in a deserted hallway and tells James.

The first Albus knows of it is when James stalks across the Great Hall, bristling with indignation like an infuriated cat. Over the last five years, he and Albus have remained on cordial, even friendly terms, so he is confused, slightly nervous as he lets his fork fall to his plate.

"What's wrong, James?" he asks, wondering for a moment if something is wrong with Lily (who was Sorted into Ravenclaw and loving every moment of it).

"You," James spits, and Albus shrinks back, unconsciously seeking Scorpius's hand under the table. "Shacking up with _Malfoy_ of all people. How could you?"

"Quite easily," Albus retorts, but his voice is shaking, and he can tell that his words have no effect on his incensed older brother. Scorpius squeezes his fingers firmly and stands up, looking every inch the polished pureblood heir.

"And what precisely is wrong with me of all people?" Scorpius asks, his voice quiet yet icy.

"You're-" James sputters to a stop, his face blushing brick red.

"Because I'm in Slytherin? But so is Albus, and we all know your family wholeheartedly approves. Because of my heritage? If the deeds of our ancestors stained our own hands red, I do believe you would have quite a bit to answer for as well. Because I'm a bloke? If you can't face the fact that your younger brother likes boys, you have bigger problems than I do. What then is the problem?"

"The fact you exist," James snipes, but there is no venom in it. All Albus can see in his eyes is blundering confusion as he turns and slinks back to his own table.

"I'm sorry," Scorpius says, plopping back down on the bench.

"For what?" Albus asks, his eyes shining. "That was bloody _brilliant_."

"I didn't mean to yell," Scorpius says wryly. "I'm afraid I got a bit loud." Albus looks around and realises everyone in the Great Hall is still staring at them. He shrugs.

"Well, they might as well know we're together," Albus replies, leaning over and pecking his boyfriend on the cheek.

"True," Scorpius says, pulling Albus closer. Albus rests his head on Malfoy's shoulder, returning to his bacon. After all, he doesn't want it to get cold.


	8. For the Sake of Auld Lang Syne

She didn't know when it all started to go haywire. They got married so early, right after Hogwarts. Perhaps that was the problem. He trotted off to Auror training and she hung up her aspirations, newlywed and flushed with young love. So determined to succeed.

He started having later and later nights. Sometimes he didn't come home at all. At first, Hermione thought nothing of it. She knew, from Harry's reports, that Auror training was difficult, and that Ron was having trouble with some of the more intricate defenses.

Then he came home, so stereotypical, with a smudge of lipstick on his collar. And it wasn't hers. Hermione knew it for a fact, because she never wore makeup. And she confronted him about it, and he brushed it off, explaining it as a smudge that probably rubbed off from a tactical exercise and a colleague.

"Like I would ever find someone else," he scoffed, kissing the corner of her mouth. "You're the only girl for me, Mione," he assured her, caressing her cheek, and for a while, she believed him.

But the nights he didn't come home increased, and soon, he didn't even bother to explain. When she found another girl's underwear in the pocket of his robes while she was gathering up the washing (she refused to use house elves, for obvious reasons), she just sat there on the edge of their bed, staring blankly into space. She didn't cry. She thought she would, when this moment happened, but her eyes stayed dry and burning.

She didn't confront him that time.

And slowly but surely, their marriage crumbled. Until now, only two years in, on the eve of their anniversary, Hermione thought about asking him for a divorce.

Over the last year, Ron had spent more time out of their marriage bed than in it. Even now, Hermione sat up by herself, sipping yet another glass of wine and sprawling over half the sofa. Ron was "working late" again.

"I need music," she told herself, flicking her wand in a tipsy squiggle at the record player. It was an antique affectation she'd picked up at a Muggle yard sale, and her father-in-law had assisted her in a few modifications.

_For the sake of auld lang syne, take me in your arms again while my heart pretends we're the same old friends and forgets for a while it's pain..._

The music drifted through the living room, and Hermione hiccuped, setting her glass a little harder than she should on the coffee table as she stood up.

The clock chimed midnight, and she laughed to herself, twirling on the spot.

"Two years," she whispered to herself, slightly slurred. "And what a happy wife I am..."

_Won't you kiss me and I'll remember, once again for a moment, you're mine, all mine!_

Eyes closed, she swayed in place, remembering a happier time, a better time. Remembering their wedding, when Ron had waltzed her around the reception hall, clumsy yet beautiful, her dress sweeping the floor, his eyes burning into hers with lovestruck intensity.

"I love you, I need you, please say you'll be mine, for the sake of auld lang syne," she sang along with the music, bringing her hands up as if to clasp her imaginary partner's.

And they struck warm flesh, and her eyes flew open, and her husband stood there, the saddest smile on his face she'd ever seen.

"Happy anniversary, Mione," he whispered, and kissed her.


	9. Yes, Mistress

_Notes: Song lyrics taken from Eluveitie: "A Rose For Epona" Warning for very dubious consent themes._

_Condemned mistress of shattered hopes and forever broken dreams_

_Were you there?_

"My little pet," Bellatrix whispers and I come to her, my limbs trembling, my eyes glassy with my adoration. She tips my head back, slips the verdigris-coloured draught down my throat. A little parting gift from the Dark Lord, something to ensure my obedience, my ever-faithful devotion. I should be angry. The old Hermione would have railed at this, would have fought tooth and nail against this green-slicked enchantment, the chains made of desire and pain.

The new Hermione simply smiles and lifts her head for another kiss, as sweet as poisoned wine. Bellatrix's nails dig into my scalp, bringing tiny darts of pain. I can feel a few fat droplets of blood spill across my skin, and I laugh. The sound echoes with madness.

Am I mad? I consider the question carefully as I follow along at her feet. She makes her rounds among the prisoners held at the Dark Lord's whim. Harry and Ron dwell among them. I barely recognise them anymore.

No, I'm not mad, I decide as Bellatrix cackles and tortures my former friends, slumped and twitching in their mutual cell. Harry's feet drum the sickly straw, and I see his eyes, still brilliant green and shattered glass. Ron shouts, but the sound is meaningless as it twists into a pain-crazed shriek.

"Do you see, pet?" Bellatrix whispers lovingly, crouching down to my level, her hand cupping my chin. "The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things. Only I think," she confides, her eyes sparkling, "that the Walrus can't speak of anything right now. Don't you?"

I nod, obedient, the stones of the dungeon floor cold and gritty beneath my bare knees. She grows bored, snapping her fingers at the still twitching figures as they fall limp and unconscious. For a moment, I think that Harry has recognised me, the collared and leashed pet of the Dark Lord's second-in-command, but I doubt it. I don't think enough of his mind is there anymore.

It was in the beginning. I remember him shouting, blustering. Defiant to the last, his voice cracking in pubescent fury. His wand snapped in the end by the Dark Lord, who smiled and made a joke about their twin cores. He stuffed the remnants of the phoenix feather in Harry's mouth, mashing the shattered quill fragments against Harry's gums until they bled. I could only watch, apathetic, as Lucius Malfoy dragged Harry and Ron down to the cells. Should I have cared? Probably.

But I can't anymore. Bellatrix levitates me up the flight of stairs, considerate as she climbs. I remain still, my head bowed as I count the steps. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. At the top, she sets me down with a jolt.

"Thank you, Mistress," I murmur to the dusty floor.

"Good pet," the words drift back, a welcome balm to my longing ears.

"Come, watch with me," she commands, and I follow, my hands and knees aching, but it is a sweet ache. I don't mind the purple bruises that flower in splotches along my pallid skin, the stinging cuts that accumulate along my ribs when Bellatrix is bored. My back bears her first name in delicate spirals. Such a beautiful name. I pick out her star every evening when I am allowed my constitutional, on the short leash of one of the junior Death Eaters. They snarl at me and hasten me along, but I ignore them. I don't answer to them. I only answer to _her_, and it amuses her when I am defiant to others, when I stick out my tongue or fasten my feet to the stones of the balcony.

In the late evening, Bellatrix leads me to her bedroom, beckons me onto the bed. The draught is massaged down my throat again, its sweet iciness stinging all the way down. But the lassitude it brings is so beautiful, I can't bring myself to care as she lays me back on the bed, twisting me like her own perfectly broken china doll.

"My pet," she whispers, kissing my mouth, laving my collarbones with her tongue. Her hands cup my breasts, pinch the nipples with exquisite sharpness, and I hiss an intake of breath, unable to keep silent anymore. Our coupling is, as always, swift and intense and so deliciously breath-taking I am left tumbling in the aftermath, kissing her over and over, whispering her name in broken syllables as her fingers manipulate me to higher and higher heights. She never stops when I beg, and I love her and curse her for it.

"Mistress," I whine as she grinds against me, as her tangled black curls fall over her face and she hisses her pleasure to the breeze that always spirals through her room.

She slaps me, hard, the hand print stinging and coming up blossom pink.

"Be a good pet," she says, and I nod, helpless.

"Yes, Mistress," I breathe, as she tears me apart once more.


	10. To Save My Own

He always insults me. Every morning when I wake next to him, uncurling from a cramped night full of nightmares, he sneers at me, maroon eyes darkening as he calls me a pitiful toy, a puling bitch who's taken the worst of two evils and broken the world in his own hubris. I could say the same for him, but instead, I say nothing, merely stare into my lap until he growls under his breath and yanks me to him, his mouth smashing against mine with raw desire. He is never gentle in the morning.

He is never gentle in the afternoon either, frustrated and furious from dealing with bureaucracy, as even Dark Lords deal with red tape. He bends me over his desk, thrusting into me so hard I nearly lose my balance and tumble headlong over the blasted furniture. Bruises bloom on my thighs, but he pays them no mind as he hisses in my ear and calls me the Boy Who Lived to Fuck. It is to my eternal shame that I come with him, untouched.

In the evening, he feeds me tidbits from his plate, listening to Lucius or Severus absentmindedly as they speak of their days. It feels almost like a twisted family, as I kneel at his feet, lapping scraps from their fallen place at his boots. Sometimes his hand comes down and tousles my hair, and I burn with secret pride. Then he kicks me, sending me sprawling to the tiles, and the feeling shatters.

"Why do you do this to me?" I long to burst out at him, long to scream at him, to hurl myself against him and _hurt_ him. But I can't. This is the price I paid to save the ones who are most dear to me, although they will never know. I can say nothing.

He keeps me safe from his minions, those who would torment me merely by virtue of my name, or the lightning bolt etched into my forehead. He protects me from outsiders as well, locking me into the bedroom when newcomers come calling. For my safety, he says at those times, and sometimes I think I see concern in those ruby eyes.

"Please me," he orders at night, when we are both undressed. He is always hard, always ready, and my mouth laves him, my fingers pleasure him, until he presses me face-down and spread-eagled into the bed, until he pants in my ear, telling me to come for him, come with him. His hand closes over me, roughly pulling once, twice, and I am undone, as always.

I lay there, panting, burning with shame as he pulls out, as he pulls me closer to him. If I did not know better, I would say that Voldemort is snuggling. But it can't be that, and so I convince myself that I am not cuddling him, I am not relaxing into his gentle grasp.

And if he whispers sweet nothings into my hair as I drift off to sleep, I can convince myself it was all a dream.


	11. Break Me

"Crucio!"

She writhes beneath the pain, the tortured shrieks spilling freely from her lips as her fingernails scrabble against the stones, breaking down to the quick. Blood paints the floor, and only then do you stop, a wicked smile curving bloodless lips as you use yet another spell to jerk her upright, hanging helplessly in your magical grasp.

"What do you say, Bella?" you purr, striding closer, your hand clasping her chin, crooked nails like claws digging into her soft, vulnerable flesh. Her eyes look shattered, cracked with madness that has only simmered in Azkaban and has burst into full fruition since she has come into being at your side once more.

"Thank you, Master," she whispers, split lips cracking into a smile. "Thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou, break me, rape me, I'm _yoursssss_."

You let her drop, careless as she sprawls to a painful heap on the floor.

"Later, Bella," you remind her, nudging her with your boot until a gasp escapes. "Mustn't mix business with pleasure."

"Yes, Master," she babbles, laving your boots with her tongue in her devotion. You enjoy the attention for a few moments, debating what needs to be done next, until finally, you gently kick her aside.

"Come, Bella," you tell her, cold but not entirely stern. "It is time for your duties to begin."

She grins, and her trademark cackle fills the air. Her hair blows about her face, alive with its own madness. Her dress is torn down the front, and you can see her flesh spilling forth, begging to be bruised and bloodied. _Later_, you promise it, your fingers twitching on your wand.

The prisoners wait below, sobbing and shivering. The stench of fear fills the air and although it reeks, you breathe it in with a deep swell of pride.

"Ah yes," you purr, striding down the rows. "Our little Mudblood." You come to a stop before Hermione Granger, the defiant Mudblood pet of the Boy Who Lived to Plague You. She raises her head and glares at you, but there's fear in her eyes now. Oh yes. A session or two with Bellatrix and that fear will come to be all she's ever known.

"Bella!" you snap out, and the woman is instantly at your side. You reach into your robes and retrieve a small crystal phial glistening with poisonous green liquid. "Here. Give this to the Mudblood. She's yours."

"Mine?" Bellatrix gasps in wonder. She leans closer to Granger, her fingers caressing the girl's cheek before she slaps it hard, bruising the soft skin easily.

"Yes, Bella," you smirk. "Yours. But do remember, won't you..." You grab her wrist and pull her to you, slamming her tortured body against yours.

"You'll always be mine first."

"Yes, Master," Bellatrix hisses, and the sound is full of ecstasy.


	12. Pieces of a Puzzle

When Scorpius asks her out, Lily says yes.

When he asks her to slip out with him, into the clearing just at the edge of the Forbidden Forest past Hagrid's old cottage, she accepts. When he pleads with her, voice husky and crackled with desire, to slide up her skirt and slide down her panties and take her there, in the dew-chilled grass, she nods, encouraging him with voice and quick, rough jolts of her hips.

Her parents don't understand. Ginny just throws up her hands and says that Lily's old enough to know what she wants, she _supposes_. Harry looks at her with carefully blank emerald eyes and tells her that she's making a mistake. _Why, Father?_ she wants to ask. _I thought you said the Malfoys were all right now?_

But she says nothing, keeping each calculated jibe, each burning taunt to herself, hoarding it like pirate's treasure. And at night, she whispers them all to Scorpius, who only laughs and takes another drag off his cigarette.

"They wouldn't understand," he says, offering her a drag, although he knows she will decline. "They don't understand you. You aren't like them. The rest of your family. Are you?"

"No," Lily whispers, sitting picture-perfect on the bed next to him. Draco doesn't care if she's there, and she takes advantage of it gratefully. Like father, like son, she supposes. "No, I'm not."

Scorpius stubs out the cigarette and pushes her down against the pillows, his eyes burning. She gives in, willingly, her tongue sliding against bruised, love-struck lips. The curves of her body fitted against his. Like pieces of a puzzle.

"I'm not," she whispers again, in the ember-scorched aftermath.

"Want a drag?" Scorpius asks, offering her a fresh cigarette. She surprises them both by grabbing his hand and pulling him closer, inhaling. It burns her lungs and she coughs.

"I think I will," she says, and takes another drag.


	13. Blameless

_Notes: Inspired by "Cell Block Tango." Warning: attempted murder, dark themes._

There was a drip in the back of the interrogation room.

Tracey ignored it for as long as she could, playing with her gum while she waited for the Aurors to come back. But it kept grating on her nerves, like an insidious form of water torture. _Drip...drip..._

"For fuck sake," she said aloud, slamming her hands on the cracked table. "Best building the Ministry can buy, and you can't even fix a bloody leaky faucet?"

As if on cue, the door slid open and two stone-faced Aurors slipped in. She recognised the one on the left-Adrian Pucey. The one on the right was a mystery.

"Miss Davis?" another voice spoke up and Harry bloody Potter himself strode in.

"You're looking at her," Tracey smirked and popped her gum.

"Why'd you do it?" Potter asked bluntly as he took a seat across from her. She leaned back in her chair and shrugged, well aware of what the motion did to her body and the way Potter's eyes glued themselves to her chest. Men. They were so...typical.

"Do what?" she professed innocence, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Miss Davis, don't play dumb with me," Potter's eyes turned to glass, and she shivered inside. Merlin, she'd forgotten how the blasted man could look so _scary_.

"Why does it matter?" she finally shrugged. "He's alive, isn't he?"

"No thanks to you," Pucey piped up. Tracey only rolled her eyes at him. Arse. He'd only wanted in her knickers when they were in school and it was a shame to see that he was still the same old bastard he'd always been.

"Miss Davis, the fact that he's alive is the only reason you aren't in Azkaban right now," Potter said, almost gentle. She bit her lip ferociously and popped her gum again. Like him turning on the good copper act would make her compliant with his wishes!

"Well," Tracey sighed, leaning forward. "It does things to a girl, y'know?"

"What?" Potter asked, leaning closer as well, until their heads almost touched.

"I loved Theodore," she said. "I still love him, to be honest. Foolish of me, isn't it? He never loved me."

"Why do you say that, Miss Davis?" Potter asked. His breath stirred her fringe.

"Did you know? I bet you didn't. He's already married. To some _Muggle_ girl," her lip curled contemptuously over the word. "She's even got a brat or two. Might be his. He never told me. How's that for a _loving relationship_?"

"Be that as it may, Miss Davis, I can't say that justifies poisoning him as you did," Potter said, coldly, leaning back in preparation to getting back up. "He's in St. Mungo's and is likely to remain there for the next month, if he pulls through. You're looking at quite a stint in Azkaban."

"Why?" Tracey shrugged as she stood up from her own chair, popping her gum one last time. "It's not my fault some guys just...can't hold their arsenic."


	14. Pretty When You Cry

_Notes: Song lyrics are from Vast: "Pretty When You Cry." A bit smutty. Serious making out._

_I didn't want to hurt you_  
_But you're pretty when you cry_  
_I didn't wanna fuck you_  
_But you're pretty when you're mine_  
_I didn't really love you_  
_But I'm pretty when I lie_

He kisses her skin, licks a scorching, melting trail down her neck, across her collarbone, and damns himself for it. Her breathy moans accentuate the silence, as she presses him to her, her skirt rucked up around her waist, her tie undone and straggling.

"Draco," she whispers, but he silences her with a finger pressed to her lips. He doesn't want to hear his name, especially not from her sweet, tainted mouth. _Mudblood,_ sings in his veins, but he ignores it, pressing open-mouthed kisses into her cleavage. The scent of her perfume chokes him.

_You can do this for the Dark Lord, can't you, Draco? Do it for him. Do it for your father. Do it...for me._

But he can't, don't they understand this? This is worse than poisonous green light from his wand, worse than the unforgivables striking daggers into his soul. Seduce Granger to gain information on Potter. So simple when you put it like that. So hard when you put it into practice.

He hadn't expected to _fall_ for her, that's the thing. He's never liked her before. Bossy Mudblood Granger, with her bookworm superiority and her beaver-like front teeth. Only they aren't so beaver-like anymore, and that unmanageable bushy brown hair has tamed itself into chestnut ringlets, and those eyes are like whiskey-warmed amber...

And her _moans_ when he touches her, he's never had a girlfriend so bloody _responsive_, and to _him_. Pansy was never like this, she was so cold and reserved, like a statue of ice. Then again, perhaps that's because she really prefers girls, and has been going with Padma for the past four months.

Draco shakes his head, trying to clear it, as his lips close around one pursed nipple, as her hands thread into his hair and her head falls back.

"Oh," she whispers, and the sound is so raw, so _needy_, he is stricken to the core.

He's supposed to get Granger to fall for him.

He's not supposed to fall for her _back._


	15. Avada Kedavra

_Notes: Warning for murder._

The first time Narcissa Black uses the Killing Curse is on the night before her wedding.

Lucius is with her, so charming, so _intense_. His fingers curl over hers as they grasp her wand, stilling her trembling as he slots her body against his, locking her into place.

"So easy," he breathes into her ear. "Come, Cissa. Do it for me. They deserve it. Look at them. Just a Mudblood. A pitiful, pathetic _thing_. Does an object deserve life?"

The question startles her and she considers it as she looks at the pretty, brunette girl in front of her, straggling hair and tear-streaked eyes.

"No," she whispers, and the answer surprises her, too.

"Then do it," Lucius encourages her. She feels him against her, his heat against her ice, and shakes her head, but not in denial. The wand tip steadies, pointed at the girl, this quivering Mudblood girl. This _thing_.

"_Avada Kedavra,_" Narcissa murmurs, and sickly green light spills forth from her wand, enveloping the girl in a verdigris flash. She tips over backward, frozen, her eyes blank and wide open. It disturbs Narcissa and she looks up to Lucius, so weak-limbed, so vulnerable.

"I know, Cissa, I know," he tells her, setting her gently aside and advancing on the husk that so recently clasped a human life. Bending down, he closes the girl's staring brown eyes. "Better?"

Weakly, Narcissa nods. The trembling has set in and she can't stop. It feels like she'll never be warm again, never be _herself_ again, but when Lucius draws her into his arms, presses a heat-slicked kiss on her lips, she can't bring herself to care.

The first time Narcissa uses the Killing Curse is the night before her wedding. It won't be the last.


	16. Routine

When James finally, reluctantly trudges up to bed (his younger brother already safely tucked up beneath the covers), Ginny approaches her husband with a twinkle in her eyes, holding the pearl-backed hairbrush shyly in one hand.

"Brush my hair?" she requests as she does every night. Harry sets aside his paperwork, brought home from another day at the Auror's office, and smiles at her.

"Of course," he answers, as always, and takes the hairbrush from her. His fingers caress hers as he does, and despite herself, she feels her cheeks warm. She settles in front of him, in her customary place, and he slowly draws the brush through her hair, gently teasing apart tangles, the bristles massaging her scalp.

She doesn't know when this became their evening routine, it's happened for so long. The first time was unintended. She'd been dealing with a particularly knotty bit and was near tears when Harry offered to help her. Red-faced and sniffling, she'd nodded and sat cross-legged in front of him as he worked at her hair. It stung and pulled for a bit, but then it was done, and he just...didn't stop. And as he brushed her hair, she felt herself growing languid and warm and relaxed, leaning against him as well as she could with her hair spread over his lap.

Like it is now, she realises with a dreamy sigh. Her hair's always been a curse to her. Too long, too thick, and oh, so virulently _red_. But Harry loves it, loves brushing it, loves putting it up as best as he can with his clumsy fingers. His braids are always crooked and too loose, his ponytails too lopsided, but she refuses to fix them, because they're from _him_.

"Come to bed," he gently whispers in her ear as he sets the brush aside, and she realises that he's done. Rising gracefully to her feet, Ginny takes his proffered hand, smiling misty-eyed at him.

"Of course," she says, and the couple proceeds to their bedroom, locking the door behind them.


	17. I Promise

He found her in the back garden, bent over her lap as she sobbed. The wind whipped auburn hair around her cheeks.

"Molly?" he said, feeling awkward. He didn't know what to do. What _did_ you do in this situation? What could you do?

"What?" she burst out, looking up at him. Her face was splotchy and tear-stained, her eyes puffy.

"I'm sorry," he tried, the tips of his ears heating up. "I'm-I'm sure she didn't mean it..."

"Right," Molly snorted. "Your mother _always_ means it, Arthur. She's a bitch."

He sat down on a rock next to her, feeling like he _should_ argue that, and knowing he wouldn't. His mother could be very cruel when she wanted to be, and apparently, when it came to wanting grand-children, that cruelty was legendary.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he said again, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. She let him grudgingly, the line of her body stiff and unrelenting beneath his grasp.

"I can't help it," she whispered, voice raw. "I don't know what's wrong. I _don't_."

"That's why we're going to St. Mungo's next week," Arthur reminded her as the wind howled around them and the sunflowers bent over their heads. "To find out. Maybe it's me."

"I doubt that," Molly scoffed, raising her head to peer at him with red-rimmed eyes. "It must be me. It must. Something's wrong with me. What if-what if they can't fix it? What if we never have children?"

"Then it doesn't matter," Arthur reassured her, gently pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I will always love you. _You_. No matter if you can have kids or never have them. The two of us will be more than enough."

"You promise?" Molly asked, sniffing inelegantly and wiping her nose with a corner of her apron.

"I promise," Arthur said, and kissed her.


	18. A Better Fit

He came upon her suddenly, when she was busy crying as quietly as she could in a corner of the Gryffindor common room.

"Handkerchief?" he asked, and she started, trying to scrub her eyes with her sleeve and smile at him as best as she could.

"Oh," Lavender said, taking the proffered fabric and trying to ignore the grimy corners and the suspicious burnt patch in the center. "Thank you."

Seamus shuffled his feet awkwardly and nodded, and she noticed that he was protecting her from the rest of the common room by the way he stood. It was a curiously gallant gesture, and it touched her in a way she'd never felt before, not even with her Won Won.

"Wanna talk about it?" Seamus offered, sitting next to her, his bulk still shielding her from curious onlookers. She shrugged anxiously and picked at the handkerchief.

"I'm sure you know already," she said quietly, her voice thickened with tears. "Wo-Ron broke up with me today. I'm...not a good fit for him or something." Bitterness coated her tongue and she swallowed hard. She knew why he'd split with her. It was that Granger bint. Hermione. The bloody know-it-all with the bushy hair and beaver teeth, but either she'd enamoured him far better than Lavender ever could, or he was smitten with the way she completed his homework.

"You deserve better," Seamus said. Lavender looked up at him. Genuine concern shone in his blue eyes.

"Like...you?" Lavender suggested daringly, placing her hand on his arm and leaning closer. Seamus's face flushed red, but he didn't move away.

"Perhaps we'd be a better fit," Seamus replied, and then he kissed her. It was a better kiss than she'd ever had with Ron Weasley.


	19. Dangerous

What were Snatchers to do when there was no one to hunt, nothing to Snatch?

Scabior leaned against a tree, sharpening his knife against its whetstone and humming tunelessly under his breath. Fenrir paced around him, angry, his nose constantly twitching. It was closer to the full moon than it should have been, and all of Scabior's senses were on red alert in regards to the full-grown werewolf.

"You're afraid of me," Fenrir grinned, showing an unpleasant mouthful of yellowed, broken teeth. "I can tell. I can _smell_ it."

"I'm sure," Scabior drawled, dropping the whetstone into his pocket and sliding his knife back into its familiar slot on his belt. His wand pressed into his arm through its holster. "Considering you've got your furry version of PMS going on, I'm amazed you can pick out anything in particular."

Suddenly, Fenrir was right _there_, slamming Scabior up against the tree, his breath hot and rank in the rangy Snatcher's face.

"I wouldn't insult me," Greyback growled into his ear. "Not if you wish to continue living."

"It wasn't an insult," Scabior said as calmly as he could." More a statement of fact."

"You're lucky you're needed," Fenrir snarled and stepped back, letting the man drop back to the leaf-strewn ground. "Or I'd make you _scream_."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Scabior retorted. Fenrir grinned again.

"Both," he said.

Suddenly, a blue light burst into bloom above their heads, Bellatrix's ever-so-slightly-deranged voice informing them of their new orders. Scabior immediately began to pack, Fenrir reluctantly following his lead a few moments after.

"Later," Fenrir growled.

"Looking forward to it, Wolf Boy," Scabior fluttered his eyelashes and grinned. It was a dangerous game, he thought as they stowed the last of the gear and headed onto the next hunt. But it was worth it.


	20. Sweet Kisses

_Warning: Includes a grown man kissing a 15-year-old girl._

She looks like a cornered deer when he stumbles into the kitchen at two in the morning, rubbing sleep from his bleary eyes, barefoot and clad only in pyjama bottoms.

"Oh!" he says, blinking in surprise when he sees her. She is still standing on tiptoe, as barefoot as he is, her night-dress rustling around her knees.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammers. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny, as if she is moments from crying.

"Don't be," he tells her, trying on his trademark grin. "Hey, your house as much as mine, right?"

"I...suppose," she says slowly, easing down to standing properly, clutching the water glass that she'd climbed up so far to get in the first place. Overly curly brown hair bobs against her shoulders.

"What were you wanting?" he asks, not understanding why, but wanting to prolong this moment, this sweet, stolen moment in the night, standing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

"Just some tea," she whispers. She is nervous and awkward as a schoolgirl, and Sirius must remind himself, as sternly as he can, that for all intents and purposes, that's exactly what Hermione Granger is. A gawkish fifteen-year-old, and why is he looking at the line of her nightgown across her breasts, and the way it swirls around her thighs? What sort of man stares at a schoolgirl and longs to see if her lips taste as sweet as they look?

This man, he decides and crosses the kitchen. She stands there, staring up at him with wide brown eyes. He ignores the tremble in her hands as he plucks the glass from her and sets it on the counter.

"Do you want to?" he asks, not sure what he's even asking, but she nods, her lips ever so slightly parted, and his mouth comes down, slanting against hers.

She tastes sweet like strawberries and ruffled library pages and an inestimable sweetness that is pure Hermione. And he can't stop kissing her, his hands plunged into her hair, cupping her face, tracing the delicate lines of her jaw. He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her and only stops when his elbow knocks against the glass and the rattling clang it makes falling over startles them apart.

"I'm sorry," he tries to say, but she shakes her head, pressing a finger against his lips.

"Don't be," she says, and turns back to her tea preparations.


	21. Hidden Stars

An older man.

Lily smirks, blowing out a stream of smoke as she leans against the sign for the dingy pub right outside Knockturn Alley. Teddy's late, but he always is. She's not surprised at all, and isn't it worth it, really? Knowing that an older man fancies her. Knowing that _anyone_ fancies her. The Potter turncoat, the wannabe Weasley in traitor's colours. She wears the green and silver tie like a challenge, even during the summer holidays.

"Looking for someone?" a voice drawls in her ear, and she jumps, biting back a shriek when she sees Teddy there, lounging against the wall and smirking. He's changed his hair to vivid, poisonous green, and his eyes gleam silver at her. His face is still pure Teddy, though, and she goes up on tiptoe, clinging to his jacket and kissing him like her life depends on it. The smoke from her cigarette wreathes the both of them.

"You're late," she accuses, but there's no heat in it. He only shrugs, his mouth twisting in wry acknowledgement. _And?_ is the unspoken reply as he guides her into Bottle's. It is a place that a child of Harry Potter should not be caught dead in, so of course, it's one of Lily's favourites.

"The usual?" the barkeep calls over, his face torn between resignation and amusement. Teddy nods for the both of them and tugs her to their favourite table, set in the corner.

"Did you have any trouble getting here?" Teddy questions, face serious. Lily shakes her head, stubbing out her cigarette in the ash tray at the center of the small table.

"Nah," she says, leaning into his shoulder. "Mum thinks I'm off with Roxanne or Victoire. As if," she snorts.

"What about your brothers?" Teddy quirks a platinum blonde eyebrow. "They don't like me..."

"They can stuff their opinion," Lily retorts quite comfortably. "Besides, what do they care? I'm a 'traitor' anyway," she adds bitterly. "I'm eeeeevil."

"We both know that's not true," Teddy admonishes. Her cheeks pinken and she finally sighs, scooting closer to him and nuzzling against him.

"Well no," she admits softly. "But it's all the same to them, isn't it? If Al had made it into Slytherin, no one would have batted an eyelash. But watch _me_ do it and..."

"All hell breaks loose," he finishes the familiar refrain for her, carding his fingers through her brilliant red hair. "I know. It's not fair. But you know what?"

"What?" she asks, looking up at him. Her eyes shine with the vulnerability she only ever lets him see.

"Their opinions don't matter," he says. "None of them matter. You're your own person, Lily. And you're going to _shine_."


	22. The Marks That Bind Us

_Notes: Includes mentions of cutting._

She hides herself and feels ashamed. The viper in their midst. The dark blemish on their perfect Light. She is dark, oh yes, she is dark. Her soul is corrupt, stained with a thousand Dark curses, twisted and tainted with the memory of a diary and a Riddle.

He's the only one who understands. He holds her in the night, when the tears won't stop falling, when the shame is so thick, she can scarcely breathe. He has his own secrets, but he holds them tight, trapped behind his teeth, trapped in the ghosts in his silver eyes. She understands.

Her brothers go about school life unknowing. Laughing, joking, smiling. Bright eyes and bright red hair. She tries to tell them sometimes, when the guilt crashes over her, but they only pat her on the head and move on. Like a simple pat on the head and a too-brief hug will erase the memory of Voldemort's hands caressing her soul. She has seen darkness and she has seen nightmares, and in the cold grey hours of the night, she wakes up weeping for her lost innocence. She is only twelve.

Of all of them, she thinks that Harry should understand. Touched by the Dark Lord, his scar stands out like a brand. But he is blind to it. Blind to the darkness that lurks within himself, blind to the taste of silver and the caress of darkness and the ghost-like traces of poisonous green. She is better off talking to a wall than to him.

Draco finds her one day, huddled in an empty classroom, her wand pointed at her arm. She has managed to cut into it a rough approximation of the Dark Mark, and when her eyes jerk up and she sees him standing there, she darts to her feet, her robes hiding the damning evidence as blood drips down her skin and pools in her hand.

"I understand," is all he says, and holds out his own arm. The scars are too blurred, too indefinite to make out, but when she really _looks_, she can see it there, too.

It is the beginning of the most furtive romance Ginny has ever participated in, and the thrill makes her breath catch. Her mother would kill her if she knew. Her father would be _so_ disappointed. And yet, wouldn't they be anyway, if they knew what a Dark witch they were raising for a daughter?

It is only to Draco, after all, when night has fallen and the shadows are alive around them, that she curls against him, her breath hot against his skin, and tells him how much she _liked_ helping Tom Riddle.

How it is, in fact, that she longs to do it again.


	23. Monster

_Notes: Warning for abuse._

"What would James say?" Sirius taunts more than once, drunk and giddy, as Lily flushes and taps his arm and finally shoves him nearly off the bench and tells him that he's had more than enough. Her smile is affectionate though, and Sirius curls his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him.

The pub is Muggle, and one that James Potter wouldn't be caught dead in. One that magical folk in general wouldn't be caught dead in, and it took quite a bit of work for Lily to drag him into it. It is worth it, though. They can have a night out for once, a stolen moment of fun amidst all the gloom and doom of the impending war, of You Know Who hanging above their heads.

"What James doesn't know won't hurt him," Lily says primly, a ghost of a smile lingering about her lips. James has changed from his Hogwarts days, but not for the better. He is bitter, angry. More than once, he has threatened Lily, even threatened the baby blooming in her womb. "Harry" is his, but to hear him rant, you'd never know it.

"But it might hurt you," Sirius says, with a pang of conscience. At first, these outings were merely a lark. A way to thumb his nose at James and help Lily get out of the house. But seeing the shadows bruised beneath her eyes, the way her frame grew steadily thinner, though the bump of her stomach increased...it hurts something deep within him, in ways he does not want to admit.

"It won't," Lily says, kissing his cheek.

But above her head, standing in the doorway, Sirius sees that it will, and fast. For despite this being a pub that magical folk wouldn't be caught dead in, James Potter is standing there, and he looks incensed enough to set the entire room on fire with his gaze alone.

"Trouble incoming," Sirius murmurs. When Lily turns around, her face goes dead white, and Sirius has to catch her before she faints to the floor.

"I never thought it would be you," James states without preamble. His face is dark with fury, and Sirius inwardly gulps.

"Me, what?" he asks, striving to keep his voice casual.

"You _know_ what," James growls. Beside them, conversation slowly dies, and James indicates that all three of them should leave with an impatient jerk of his head. Lily is coming round, and Sirius gently pats her cheeks until she does. The moment she does, her eyes glaze over with tears, but she refuses Sirius's help in leaving, her posture ramrod straight.

"No, I don't know what," Sirius picks up where they left off, once they are standing in the grass behind the pub. The sky is purple-black above them. "I _do_ know what _you've_ been doing, though."

"Sirius, stop," Lily says, suddenly panicked, but he ignores her. As if he wouldn't notice the bruises in the shape of finger-marks on her upper arm. Or the peculiarly stiff way she held her neck sometimes. Or the way she cringed if someone raised their voice around her.

"What do you mean?" James snaps, but there is a furtive shifting behind his eyes.

"You're hurting Lily," Sirius says baldly, and the words hang between them like ghosts. "You're hurting the best fucking thing that ever happened to you. And for _what_? Your own bloody ego? Because the war's got you stressed? Mate, it's got us _all_ stressed and you don't see me slapping round my girlfriends."

"I don't know what you're talking about," James retorts, but he has diminished, changed. Instead of the blustering, righteously angry man who stormed into the pub a few minutes ago, all too ready to catch his wife cheating, he is almost cowering, shoulders slumped. Between them, Lily has started to cry.

"It's a miracle she hasn't miscarried," Sirius continues, feeling like he is probing a raw wound, but unable to stop. "She can't eat. She can't sleep. She cowers every time there's a yell. This isn't Lily. This isn't _you_. What _happened_, James?"

"Nothing!" James insists, his voice savage. "Nothing happened, you don't know what you're talking about." But the words lack conviction, and they all know it.

"Lily, you aren't going home with him," Sirius says. "You're going home with me."

"Oh, so now you're playing hero, is that it?" James spits. "Playing hero to steal my wife?"

"No," Sirius says, glaring hotly at his best friend. "To protect her. From you."

He grabs Lily by the wrist and disapparates with a crack, leaving behind a stunned and silent James Potter.


	24. Nothing Alike

"Can't you be serious for one bloody moment?" Angelina shouts at him in a moment of frustration. The rain plasters her hair to her scalp, makes her squint through the water at the Weasley twins. She can't even tell which one she's yelling at, and it makes her irritation that much greater.

"I'm not Sirius, I'm Fred," one twin deadpans, and Angelina's had enough. She throws her hands up, letting her broom drop heedlessly to the rain-soaked grass, and stomps off. Her trainers squelch in the mud.

Behind her, she can hear the twins conversing, but she pays them no more mind as she heads to the changing rooms. A good hot shower, away from this interminable rain, might possibly restore her mood enough for her to be able to look at Fred and George Weasley without wanting to throttle the both of them on sight.

"Hey, wait up!" a voice calls, and she quickens her pace, escaping into the sanctity of the girls' changing rooms. But to her dismay, Fred or George Weasley comes barging in right after her.

"Excuse me, I don't think you're a girl," she says frostily, pointedly eyeing the sign. He has the grace to blush, but still refuses to leave.

"I'm sorry," he says, scuffing his trainer into the cement floor. "We were just goofing around and didn't see how much it bothered you. We didn't mean to upset you."

"Well you did," Angelina says stiffly. "A lot, thanks, and if you don't mind, I'd like to get changed, um...Fred?"

"George, actually," he tells her, and a slight smile quirks his lips. "I really am sorry. Both of us are. I know how much this match means to you."

"Thanks," Angelina says, a bit ruefully. Water trickles down her neck, provoking a shiver. "Um..."

"Yeah, I know," George scrunches his nose. "Leaving now."

He turns to go, and Angelina reaches out a hand, stops him.

"Wait," she says, then goes on tiptoe and kisses him.

"Enjoy your shower," George says, looking slightly dazed. Angelina nods and watches him go through the driving rain. She shuts the door and wonders how she ever mistook him for his twin. They are nothing alike.


	25. Always

It's after classes when she finds him, as usual. He's tucked away in his favourite window seat, head resting on his knees and the disillusionment charm up as always. It's only her who can see through it, and he wonders, not for the first time, why that is.

"Is this seat taken?" she asks brightly, like she always does, and he shakes his head. She clambers up on the opposite side, her feet poking against his.

"Hi," he says, more than a bit awkward. It never used to be like this, but that was before he was Sorted into Slytherin and she was Sorted into Gryffindor. And never the twain shall meet again, at least according to Potter and his gang of bullies. The members of his own House are more than a bit angry at his choice of friend but lay off for the most part, apparently blaming it on her being a girl. Claiming he fancies her. He does, but that's not the point. She's the best friend he's ever had, and he refuses to throw that away over a bit of House rivalry. But it's so _hard_ sometimes.

"Hi," she replies, and her smile is more than a little sympathetic. Muggleborn or not, they are not as hard on her. She is a Gryffindor, a lion decked in crimson and gold. She can do no wrong. It's he who's corrupting her. A slimy, no-good Snake. That's what Potter spit at him the other day, before sticking his legs together and forcing him to bunny-hop to class. The waves of laughter that had followed him made his soul cringe.

They talk for a while, of classes and homework. The way they both swear that Professor McGonagall has a wand stuck up her arse. The new books they have discovered-Lily's is a book on Experimental Charms and Severus's is, as always, a book on Dark Arts. She looks slightly disapproving at this information, but says nothing, merely sits there and plays with her hair as he talks at great length about a particularly nasty curse based on blood.

"Sorry," he finally says, cheeks turning red. "You must be so bloody bored..."

"Not even," she smiles, and the light returns to her sparkling green eyes. "Only wish you'd pick happier reading material, Sev. You know."

"Yeah," he trails off, looking wistful. The clock sounds for supper, and he scrambles off the window ledge, heaving his book-bag over his shoulder. She follows more demurely, a smile still touching her lips.

"See you tomorrow?" she asks, tucking her hair behind her ears. He grins at her.

"Always."


	26. A Box of Gum Wrappers

She stumbles across the shoebox full of old gum wrappers when she is cleaning. It's sat in the farthest corner of the closet, and for a moment, Hannah considers throwing it away. Then the oddity of it strikes her and she sets it aside instead, intending to ask Neville about it later. It's not until hours later, when they are both curled up in bed, and she hovers on the blurry edge between sleep and wakefulness that her eyes fall on the shoebox and she recalls it.

"Nev?" she asks, gently prodding his shoulder. He rolls over, looking at her with sleepy grey eyes.

"Yeah?"

"I was cleaning earlier and I found a shoebox full of gum wrappers," she starts. The effect on Neville is instant. He sits bolt upright, panic rolling off him in waves.

"You didn't toss it, did you? Oh, Merlin, please tell me you didn't do anything," he says, voice shaky.

"It's-it's fine, Neville," Hannah blinks in surprise. "It's right there." She points at the shoebox, set out by the closet. Neville stumbles out of bed, gathering the shoebox close to him as he clambers back under the covers. Hannah is surprised to see tears in his eyes.

"Nev?" she says, alarmed. "Nev, what's wrong?"

"You know my parents?" he says thickly, a strange non-sequitur. She nods slowly.

"Of-course, Neville, they're in St. Mungo's, they're fine, what is..."

"They don't remember me," Neville says, still shaky. His fingers constantly smooth the top of the shoebox. "You know that. You know I visit them."

"Yes, but what about erm, those?" Hannah asks, pointing at the box filled with gum wrappers.

"My mum," Neville says simply, a tear spilling down his cheek. "On her good days, she always gives me a gum wrapper. Like she remembers me. Somewhere...like somewhere deep inside, she remembers that she's got a son. That she's got me."

"Oh, Neville," Hannah says, and wraps her arms around him, feeling his tears splash down against her arm, but not caring. "Of course she remembers. They both do. I know they do."

"I know it's stupid," Neville admits, hefting the shoebox a little. "But the wrappers are-all I've got to remember her, really."

"It's not stupid at all," Hannah whispers, staring into his eyes, her own misted over as well. "I promise it's not. I'll put them back, all right?"

"All right," Neville agrees, nodding. "Only-not tonight?" He puts the box on his night table, and she smiles in understanding.

"Not tonight," Hannah whispers, and curls back up next to him.


	27. I Know What I Want

_I fall apart when you're not there._

Tonks asks you out after the Order meeting's done, her hair shy, blushing pink, and you accept before you realise the words have popped out of your mouth. She beams and kisses you on the cheek, informing you that it will be dinner, and she will swing by at six p.m. tomorrow. You nod, dazed, as she apparates off and Sirius claps you on the back, telling you what a lucky wolf you are.

"Shut up," you tell him, but there's no heat in it. You don't know what to wear. What does one wear on a date? You finally decide on your least shabby pair of pants and the shirt with an anchor pin in the collar. You don't know it yet, but it's more fitting than you know. Your hair refuses to tame itself and you can't help but think of your surrogate nephew, and your departed best friend.

Sadness stabs you, but then the bell rings and she's there, and she blows the sadness away with saucily pursed lips and a bright blue streak in her hair.

"Come on, live a little," she says with a wink, as she rearranges her features. She looks different, thinner, her eyes blue instead of green, her lips a shade too thin, but somehow, you know it's her. You always know when it's her.

"This isn't appropriate," you try to insist when she tugs you against the wall later, when her body slides up against yours, and you know, somehow, that these are _her_ curves, this is _her_ body, no show, no magic, just pure, unadulterated _Tonks_, and the knowledge fills you with a heady sort of lust.

"Why?" she whispers in your ear, sliding against you, her legs slippery in fishnet tights. "Because I'm younger than you? I know what I want, Remus. I want you. If you don't want me, that's one thing, but I refuse to let your hang-up about my age get in the way of something beautiful."

_Something right,_ lingers in your head, and then you're kissing her, your mouth crashing against hers with an intensity bordering on vicious. Her hands catch in your hair, tugging, pulling your head back even though she's shorter than you, and it's more than you ever thought it could be.

It ends sooner than you expected, sooner than you hoped. She staggers back on her high heels, her eyes wide and wet and vulnerable, and tells you that she'll see you tomorrow. A whisper in the dark: _I love you._ Then she's gone and you're alone, with only the scent of her hair to remind you, and the memory of her lips pressed against yours.


	28. When It's You, The World Fades Away

"Katie? Is that you?"

The hesitant voice made her spin around on her bar stool, keeping close hold of her tumbler of firewhiskey. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the stocky man in front of her, still dressed in slightly muddy Quidditch robes.

"Oliver?" she whispered in disbelief, her firewhiskey nearly slipping from her hands before he took the glass from her and set it on the counter.

"Yeah," he smiled, a rogue-ish quirk of her lips that still never failed to make her heart beat just a little bit faster. "Been forever, hasn't it?"

He sat down next to her, ordered the same, and turned back to her. Around her, conversations rose and fell, going on as if nothing had happened. As if one of the best Keepers Puddlemere United had ever seen hadn't just walked into a dingy London pub.

"How've you been?" she asked, taking another gulp of firewhiskey. It burned as always, slaking her throat with liquid fire.

"All right, I suppose," he said, tracing the rim of his glass with his finger. "Busy. And you?"

"Oh, this and that," Katie laughed, her voice just the slightest bit too brittle, the glitter in her eyes too bright to be anything but tears.

"Katie?" Oliver's gaze sharpened. "What's wrong?"

_Perceptive as always,_ Katie thought bitterly as she fortified herself with another sip.

"Nothing," she said, trying to sound breezy, but only sounding fake. Story of her life.

"Something obviously is," Oliver said gently.

"Oh, you know," Katie shrugged. "What's a girl to do when she's out of a job, she'll be homeless at the end of the week, and there's no chance of her getting another job in her field because her knee's too bloody out of commission to ever play Quidditch again?" Tears prickled the backs of her eyes as she recalled the doctor's somber pronouncement.

_I'm sorry, Miss Bell. I'm afraid the damage is permanent._

"What?" Oliver exclaimed in shock. "Oh, Katie." To her surprise, he enfolded her in his arms, pressing her so tightly against himself, she nearly over-balanced on her stool.

"Does anyone know?" he asked, brown eyes burning into hers. She shook her head.

"I can't-I can't tell people," she whispered. "I can't stand the pity and the looks and the-no, no one else knows."

"But I do," Oliver pointed out.

"I don't mind if you do," Katie said, and realised it was true.


	29. I've Elected Hell

_Notes: Song lyrics from Breaking Benjamin's "You."_

_Promise me you'll try_  
_To leave it all behind_  
_'Cause I've elected hell_  
_Lying to myself_  
_Why have I gone blind_  
_Live another life_

Life is different after the war. He escapes Azkaban, his whole family does, but the stares he gets in the street make him wish that perhaps he'd ended up there after all. The dementors are gone. The only thing left to torment you is your own guilt, and he has plenty of that. He tells Harry he's sorry. Tells them all he's sorry. But the words ring hollow and finally, he has to turn away, has to Apparate home and bury himself in the library, in the gardens, anywhere to save himself from the crushing emptiness.

His parents are like ghosts, and he can't bear to see them anymore. He becomes a phantom, flitting around the grounds like a wraith. The house elves beg him to eat, but he only manages scraps to please them.

And then she comes.

A breath of flower-scented air, Pansy storms into his rooms early one morning, blowing the curtains apart with a flick of her wand and grinning in satisfaction at the way his hands fly up to cover his face.

"Are you done moping?" she snaps, her eyes flashing blue fire at him. He scowls at her.

"I am not _moping,_" he insists icily. Pansy only rolls her eyes and summons his blankets to her, laughing at his panic-stricken yelp at finding himself before her in only his y-fronts.

"Get dressed," she finally says, tossing the blankets back onto the bed. "You're coming with me."

Draco stumbles out of bed, a sheet haphazardly wrapped around him for modesty.

"Oh, and Draco?" Pansy calls after him. "Dress _appropriately._" She smirks at him, and he disappears into his closet, only reappearing when he is properly attired in grey slacks, emerald-green shirt, and black robes. She smiles in approval when she sees him and ruffles his hair up into messy spikes.

"Don't," he says irritably, but she only laughs and ruffles his hair once more, pulling him after her past the ghost-silent Narcissa and absorbed Lucius, who only turns another page of his newspaper and ignores his son hurtling past him on the arm of a girl most of the Wizarding World despises.

"Where are we going?" Draco asks, but she doesn't reply, only clutches him tighter to herself and Disapparates. They land in a dismal alleyway, and Draco crinkles his nose at the stench of refuse and the twitching whiskers of an over-sized rat that squeaks defiance at him before disappearing into a cluster of bins.

"This way," Pansy insists, dragging him out into the street proper. It is full of witches and wizards, some in robes and some in clumsy Muggle attire. The whispers and stares begin as always, and Draco tries to wrench himself free from her grasp. Why is he here? Does she really want to watch him be mocked further, watch his mental state degrade even more?

His polite mask is cracking and it is with more than a bit of relief that he notices they have stopped before an ornate-faced building, with no sign up, and blackened windows.

"What is this place?" he asks. Pansy smiles impishly at him and drags him in.

"You'll see," she nods.

The inside is dark, but lushly appointed. Draco squints around, but can't see anything until Pansy yanks him nearly off his feet.

When the lights rise up, he is surrounded by his old classmates.

His old _Slytherin_ classmates, he takes in, in a split second. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott converse quietly in a corner. Millicent Bullstrode is sprawled out on a very plush-looking sofa, reading a book.

"What-what is this?" Draco stammers. Pansy laughs, but it's not a cruel laugh for once.

"You'd know if you hadn't locked yourself up like a hermit for the past year," she teases. "It's for everyone who's so _Dark _and _evil_ they can't be seen in polite company." The sarcasm is refreshing, and Draco finds himself smiling without realising it.

"I didn't know you still knew how to smile," Pansy says dryly, guiding him to a chair.

"I'm not my parents," Draco jibes back, then bites his lip, cheeks flooding with colour.

"I'm sorry, Draco," Pansy says, her voice soft.

"It's not your fault," Draco shrugs. Pansy looks undecided, but nods and changes the subject.

"So. _Now_ are you done moping?" she re-asks him. His smile returns, tentative but there, as he looks around, at everyone who knows he's there, but doesn't care. No pointed stares, no sneering faces or jabbing fingers. Just acceptance.

"Yes," Draco says, and realises it's the truth.


	30. Arguments and Contemplations

_Notes: Song lyrics come from Breaking Benjamin's "Firefly." _

_Fuck you, firefly, have you lost your light?_

_Now I hate your ways 'cause they're just like mine._

_So you've lost, my friend, such a sorry end._

_And I don't know why, so I choke and smile._

"Rowena?"

She heard his voice behind her, but refused to turn, quickening her pace until she was safe behind the heavy oaken door of her chambers. She could hear him standing awkwardly outside the door, and for one moment, she prayed that he would turn away, that he would leave this for one bloody night.

But he was not known as the courageous hero for nothing, and sure enough, his brisk knock sounded on the door.

"Rowena!" he called through the thick wood. "Hiding from this won't solve anything, you know."

_I know, Godric, that's not the point,_ she thought

"I don't feel well," she prevaricated instead. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Godric. Just...not tonight. Please?"

"I will accept your decision," he finally said, oddly formal. "But I'll hold you to that, Ro."

_I wouldn't expect anything less,_ Rowena thought and sank to the floor, not letting the tears spill down her face until she heard his footsteps going away.

She wasn't ever supposed to fall for him. Not like this. He was her friend. A trusted comrade and a man she had always respected. She would not have agreed to open Hogwarts with him otherwise.

It was a night's mistake a few months ago. Too much wine, and she confessed her feelings while swaying in a clumsily seductive fashion against his bedposts. Was it any wonder he took her to bed?

Was it any wonder she was pregnant now?

He wasn't supposed to find out, but he'd overheard her telling Helga, and the cat was well and truly out of the bag now.

What was she going to do?

_Firefly, could you shine your light?_

_Now I know your ways, 'cause they're just like mine._

_Now I'm justified as I fall in line,_

_And it's hard to try when you're open wide._

At first, Godric was angry. How could she keep such a secret from him? Didn't she understand him? He wanted to do the right thing, he wanted to stand by her and love her and the baby that grew in her womb as best as he could. And yet she couldn't even bother to bloody tell him, he'd had the...good fortune? to be passing by the Great Hall when she was confiding in Helga, head resting on the other woman's slightly plump shoulder and crying. _Crying._ His Ro was crying over the fact that she was pregnant, and it was _his_.

His first impulse had been to slam his way into the Great Hall and demand to know when the hell she had been planning on telling him. Thankfully, he resisted that impulse. Not-so-thankfully, it hadn't mattered anyway because he'd been caught flat-footed outside the Hall when Rowena and Helga came out, and by the stricken look on Ro's face, she obviously _knew_ he'd heard every word.

But he didn't know _why_. Was he that repulsive to her now? She'd told him that she loved him, and he'd admitted he shared her feelings. Was her confession merely borne out of alcohol? Did she actually have no desires for him beyond that of a simple, cordial friendship like they'd shared in the past? Was she disgusted by him?

His shoulders slumped as he paced back and forth in his chambers. She'd told him that she'd talk to him tomorrow. Not tonight. He could already tell he wouldn't get a wink of sleep tonight. He was too keyed up, too anxious. What if she rid herself of the baby? What if she told him that she never wanted to see him again? He didn't want to leave Hogwarts, but if he had to, to keep her happy, he would.

No matter what happened, Godric suddenly resolved, he would always love her.

His Ro.


	31. Periwinkles

When everyone else laughs at you, he doesn't.

You know what everyone calls you-some behind your back, as if it's an attempt to be kind. Others, like Malfoy and his cronies, sneer it to your face. Loony Lovegood. Loony because you wear radishes for earrings, and have a butterbeer-cork necklace, and like to read your father's _Quibbler _upside down (mainly because of the clever charms he's slipped into the print that gives you new articles when you do). Barmy because you're good at Divination and you like to go barefoot and you talk about the Nargles that hide in the corners of the hallways, and the thestrals that live in the forest. Your classmates hide your shoes in the rafters and your quills behind the curtains, claiming with blankly innocent faces that perhaps a nargle took them. At least it disarms them (if only for a moment) when you smile and airily agree.

Even the professors look at you askance when you skip down the hallways, braiding flowers together, your pockets smelling of raw meat. Of them all, perhaps only your own Head of House, Professor Flitwick, understands you best. He always gives you sad smiles and cups of tea when you stop by his office every evening. You claim it's for homework advice, but even he knows it's not. For one, you leave your homework untouched in your book-bag.

Neville waits for you every night, awkwardly slouched against the wall outside Flitwick's office. His wand pokes out of his sweater sleeve as he walks you back to the dormitory. He never says anything, but you know he's trying, in his own clumsy way, to protect you. You smile at him and tuck periwinkles into his hair, telling him it will keep the crumple-horned snorkacks away. He just nods at you and grins, and you know he doesn't understand a word of what you've just said, but he accepts it anyway. Accepts _you_, and a week later, a seam in his bag splits and you spy the dried periwinkle blossoms crumpled at the bottom. He hasn't thrown them out, and for a moment, you feel tears prickling your eyes. Your classmates' cruelty never makes you cry, but their kindness does. His kindness, anyway. Harry's sometimes all right to you, and Hermione's kind in a bossy, "for your own good" sort of way. But Neville's is different. Neville's reminds you of your mum, how she would make you cookies every week and how she would braid your hair down to your waist, and read you stories. How she'd never tell you that you were stupid or crazy, never argued when you took your shoes off and ran barefoot through the house and down to the river. She just accepted you. Like Neville does.

"Thank you," you whisper every night when you step into your common room. He doesn't understand, but he always replies, always tells you good night, and sometimes offers a one-armed hug.

And you always watch him until he disappears round the corner of the hallway, before your fingers dip into your pocket and caress the crinkled edges of a dried periwinkle blossom.


	32. His Other Half

"You know," Verity began conversationally the day after the anniversary of Fred's death. "I don't think your brother would appreciate you drinking yourself into the grave next to his."

George's mouth dropped open in shock and not a little bit of anger as the blunt words of his shop assistant sank in.

"You overstep-" he began, but she kept talking, still staring down intently at her hands.

"I've known you for bloody years, George. Years. And I know what losing Fred did to you-did to all of us," she choked up for a moment, before swallowing and continuing resolutely. "And I've also watched you disappear farther and farther into a bottle of firewhiskey the past several months. Your family's too afraid to say anything to you, but I'm not. I care about you too much for that. And if you've got to fire me or whatever-do it. But I couldn't stand one more day without telling you that people care about you, and don't want to see you bloody drink yourself to death."

George stared after her in blank, slack-jawed surprise as Verity picked up her purse and walked out the door, her shoulders a bit too stiff, hair bobbing around her chin. _Am I really that bad?_ he wondered.

For months, he'd felt so empty. Like the most vital half of him was missing. And it was. Fred was gone, there was no bringing him back. He'd been the life force behind the joke shop and without him, business had dwindled. It hadn't died-Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes still brought in a respectable amount of customers and a sufficient influx of income-but it wasn't the same. It needed someone, and George had a terribly sinking feeling that someone was Fred.

He wanted to blow up at Verity. Wanted to tell her that she most certainly was fired, she could pick up her last week's wages tomorrow and be done with it. But the words kept sticking in his mind. He'd certainly started to drink more than he had before. But how could he not? The alcohol blurred everything. The war, the way his twin's face slackened in surprise when he died. The scream that had torn out of his throat, ravaged his ears, when he'd realised the other half of his soul had fallen. It was too painful, too sharp-edged, for him to bear.

The only thing that helped him withstand the grief was alcohol-and Verity, George realised with surprise. She was always there, always willing to pitch in and help, to manage the till or brainstorm new jokes with him. She even had dinner with his family a few times a month, when they'd both run late and he felt like a right tit telling her to go home to her small, one-bedroom flat and a meal out of tins while he had Molly Weasley's cooking. She gave him a shoulder to cry on when the emotions became too much, a kiss on the cheek when she left every night. Her wit was almost as sharp as his was.

Maybe she was right. George stuffed his wand in the holder in his trousers and hurried to the door, yanking it open in the intention of going to her flat and apologising. Instead, he ran almost smack-dab into her. She was still standing outside the joke shop in the gathering twilight, her hand clutching the strap of her bag and her face altogether scarlet.

"Verity?" he asked.

"Yes, George?" she said, her voice brittle. He saw her knuckles whiten on her bag's strap. No doubt she was thinking she was about to be fired.

"You're right," he admitted, and tears glittered in his eyes. "And...I'm sorry."

Her smile was beatific.


	33. Secrets Are Best Left Unshared

_Notes: Song lyrics are from The Used: "Blood On My Hands." Warning for very Dark! Harry. (Apparently, I can't seem to write Harry/Hermione without Harry going Dark, go figure... XD)_

_There's blood on my hands_

_Like the blood in you_

_Some things can't be treated so_

_Don't make me, don't make me be myself around you_

She was always prying.

Always questioning his well-being, poking and prodding at his innermost secrets. Are you _sure_ you're all right, Harry, she would stress, brown eyes wide and imploring. She'd nibble her bottom lip in anxiety when he didn't answer, and he'd finally taken to smiling his most innocent smile and telling her that of course he was all right. Just a bit stressed. Exams coming up, you know. And the whole Dark Lord coming to murder us all thing. And she'd laugh and swat his shoulder and say Oh, _Harry_.

Whenever these conversations happened, he'd feel quite prickly and warm all over, and like what he wanted more than anything in the world was to lock his hands around her throat and squeeze. Squeeze until her eyes popped, until her tongue lolled out of her mouth, and her skin turned cyanotic blue.

It wasn't even because he hated her. On the contrary, he actually had quite a crush on Hermione Granger. He just wanted to know what would happen. Would she gurgle? Scream? Try to fight? Her hands flailing against his arms, the brightest witch of his generation reduced to a breathless, terrified mess because of him?

He couldn't do it, of course. He'd be caught. Didn't they say murderers always murdered people they knew? Not to mention that Hogwarts itself would tell on him, would spill forth his secrets like bloodstained sheets.

Voldemort whispered in his head constantly. At first, Harry had thrust him away, lashing out with untrained reflexes in panic. He hadn't told anyone. He was too afraid to. Dumbledore couldn't even look at him anymore, and what could he tell anyone else? "I heard You Know Who in my head?" He'd sound like he'd gone raving. Like the Prophet was right. The Ministry was right.

So he kept it to himself, closed up his mind as tightly as he could (and despite what anyone else might think, Harry Potter was not that bad at mental shielding), but at night. Oh, he dreamed at night. Of holding a wand, but the wand wasn't his, this wand was dipped in blood and pain and a thousand screams of the dying wreathed around it like smoke. This wand flicked acid green light like a poisonous scarf, and where the scarf landed, someone died.

In the beginning, Harry was horrified at these dreams. He was more horrified when he began to dream of murdering his own classmates, of rending Hogwarts apart in blood and fire and always that brilliant, brilliant green light, the same colour as his eyes. But slowly-oh, so slowly-the horror began to change to something else.

Excitement. Exhilaration. The _thrill_ of it all sparked through his veins and he became a proper stickler for early bedtimes, ignoring even the infected, blazing-hot cuts on his hand from Umbridge's Blood Quill. Even in his dreams, he could tell that Voldemort was shocked by that. The Ministry's Own, using a Blood Quill on students.

_And they call me evil,_ Voldemort said to Harry, and they both laughed, and for just a moment, their laughter was the same.

And though he kept it hidden, Harry began to change. He practised dark curses in secret, imagining the surprise in his victim's eyes, imagining the pain contorting their body, freezing them in unnatural positions. At first, he pretended that this was only to be aimed at You Know Who's followers. But he knew better, deep down. It was for anyone. Anyone he chose. They all deserved it, didn't they? Dumbledore for deserting him. Snape for being an utter, foul bastard. Ron for constantly deserting his side. Hermione for being such an overwhelming know-it-all. Hermione for having bushy brown hair he longed to run his fingers through, for having melted-amber eyes he wanted to lose himself in.

Of all the people he knew, he pictured hurting Hermione the most.

Stalking her somewhere, trapping her. Taunting her into action, asking her where all her book-smarts were now. Dueling her. He could take her, he knew he could. He'd always been better at DADA and now, he was becoming quite (secretly) accomplished in the Dark Arts themselves. Voldemort his ever-present tutor. He could take her. Hurt her. He pictured her throat, soft and vulnerable beneath his hands, and bit his lip until it split.

Soon, he promised himself, his eyes bleeding to dark maroon threaded with _Avada Kedavra_ green.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione asked him, and he shook himself out of it, blinking and looking up at her with overly wide emerald eyes.

"Of course, Hermione," he lied, putting on a rueful smile. "Just stressed, that's all."


	34. Her Own Secret

This had to be kept a secret.

Lily knew it did, and yet she couldn't help but be that extra bit risky when she got ready, inject the slightest bit of treachery in her voice as she claimed to be visiting Dominique or Roxanne. Her mum looked at her with narrowed brown eyes, but she only widened her own in innocence, and then she was free, skating down the road to the park on her new muggle roller-blades.

_She_ waited there, sat underneath a tree, her bag by her side. She was reading a trashy romance and when Lily skidded to a stop next to her, kicking up a mini-whirlwind of dust and leaves, she only quirked her mouth in a slight frown, folding the corner of the page down and setting the book aside.

"You made it," Lavender said and smiled, licking her lips and smirking as Lily's eyes helplessly followed the movement.

"Yes," Lily nodded, captivated as Lavender stood up, gently grasping the younger girl's hands and Apparating with her, back to her private flat. As soon as they stumbled against the wall, they were locked together, hands stroking and caressing everywhere, mouths locked. It was quick and messy and _beautiful_ and as Lily caught her breath on Lavender's kitchen floor, she couldn't help but think again how her parents would feel if they knew about this.

But their responses didn't matter, did they. This was Lily's own secret and as she pressed another sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Lavender's lips, she knew it was one secret she'd never tell.


	35. Blue and Yellow

_It was never meant to be this way..._

Dad tells me that it was an inescapable accident. When Mum died, the way she died, her magic needed somewhere to go. And the only place it could find was...me, cowering in the corner of the room, tears streaming down my face as I watched my own mother explode. It's quite a traumatic scenario, so no one realised for ages. By the time anyone did, well, it was too late, wasn't it?

Her magic is intertwined with mine, vivid, blazing yellow against translucent blue. It's quite pretty to watch and sometimes I do, trailing my wand across the darkness of my bedroom to watch it play out. No one else can see it (I found that out the hard way when I tried to show Padma Patil, and she claimed I was insane), but at least I can. I think of my mum, and when I'm all alone, sometimes I cry.

I don't cry in front of other people, I know better. Tears are weaknesses, and weaknesses are ways for people to hurt you. I learned that soon enough. Being called barmy, nutters, insane. "Loony" Lovegood, they taunt. They hide my shoes in the rafters and my books in the flower pots. I try to confront them, but when I do, they only laugh and tell me perhaps a Nargle took them. It's hard not to let my magic have free rein with them, yellow and blue swirling together. Did you know when they're perfectly combined, they're _Avada Kedavra_ green? I try not to dwell on that thought. My magic has a mind of its own, you see, and I can't let another accident happen again.

It was before Hogwarts, when I was still having lessons in old Mrs. Kettlebroom's house down the road with the other neighbourhood children. Iris Plimsoll wouldn't stop teasing me about how I'd gone barefoot yet again, and she brought my mum into it. Told me that my mum would think I was a disgrace but then again, maybe not, because my mum was just as crazy as I was when she was alive. And before I could do anything, vivid green flames enveloped her and she disappeared for ages. When they found her, she was down by the brook, burnt nearly unrecognisable.

At least no one ever said anything bad about my mum again.

Until I came to Hogwarts, that is, but I can't let my magic escape here. They won't believe that it's an accident. That I can't help it. They'll think I'm the dangerous kind of mad, I'll be locked up in St. Mungo's, prodded and poked until they figure out what happened. Why I'm "different."

Of all the people in Hogwarts, I think Harry understands me the best. He doesn't know he does. Not yet. He doesn't know he's got a piece of You Know Who locked up in his head. But I can see it. His magic is deep, vivid blue, like a starry night, but his scar pulses dark, poisonous green. What else could it be? I talk to him sometimes, offer up pieces of my soul for his inspection. He's unwittingly kind, although he doesn't understand me. That's all right. I nod and smile, my expression vague, as I offer him a periwinkle for his thoughts, or a thistle blossom for his nightmares. Granger always scowls at me, telling Harry in hissing whispers I'm loony, don't listen to me, and I have to keep the thoughts away. Of _Avada Kedavra_ green encircling her, too, wrapping her up in an emerald shroud.

It would disappoint Harry, you see, and I don't want to disappoint him ever. I want to keep him safe.

Even if it's from me.


	36. Outcasts Stick Together

Dominique's the outcast of the family, though no one's willing to say it. Sorted into Slytherin House, taking after her father's side of the family. The Weasleys shun her because she's not in Gryffindor, and the Delacours shun her because she doesn't look a Veela, isn't tall and willowy and blonde like her sister, like she should be.

They don't say it, but they don't need to say it. She feels it as acutely as a stinging blow to the face, like the time Victoire slapped her for taking the last pastry at breakfast and no one spoke up in her defense. Is it any wonder that she embraces her Slytherin side? Finally, a place all to herself, a place she can belong. When Lily Potter is sorted there as well, she feels sick to her stomach and can't even clap.

"Ignore it," Scorpius whispers in her ear, but she can't. She wants to smack the triumphant look off Lily Luna's face, wants to pull that red hair clean off. It's not _fair,_ damn it, but since when has life been fair?

"She only wanted to be in here to piss off her family," Dominique hisses back, digging her fingernails into her palms until it hurts.

"I know," Scorpius soothes. Lily sits at the end of the table, flashing smug smiles around the Hall, especially toward the Gryffindor table, where her older brothers sit and glare at her.

"I hate her," Dominique mutters to her on-again, off-again boyfriend, hiding behind her own hated red hair. When she was eleven, she tried dyeing it blonde, but it only took in patches, and her sister laughed herself silly until her mum took pity on her and magicked the dye off. It's one more reminder of her heritage, and one more reminder she wishes she could hex off.

"Don't worry," Scorpius murmurs, his lips curling into an unpleasant-looking smile. "We may stick together _outside_ of the dormitory, but inside..."

A matching smirk graces Dominique's face, although she wipes it off in time to look pleasant at Lily's overly curious face gawping around.

"Welcome to the hated side of the family," Dominique longs to say, but she doubts it will be true. The Potters and Weasleys fawn over Lily Luna, the baby of the family, the pretty little princess with guileless brown eyes and dimples.

Lily will never be hated. Not like Dominique.

And some secret part of her loathes herself for it.


	37. The Moon and the Stars

You're drawn to her like the stars, like the moon, like everything you've ever wanted and everything you couldn't have. You follow her around like a love-struck puppy, hiding behind pillars and trees, feeling ridiculous, but unable to help yourself. Your friends don't understand. You don't understand yourself.

Her name is Selena Malfoy, and she is beautiful.

Her older brother protects her from the boys, from the gawping idiots who see the perfect fall of her blonde hair, the silvery sheen of her trademark Malfoy eyes, or the slim curves under her uniform, and try to claim that perfection for themselves. But he doesn't think to protect her from the girls. Like you.

You don't tell anyone you like girls. You can't. They'll laugh at you. And your parents-gods, your parents wouldn't understand. Lusting after a girl? A _Malfoy,_ at that? Your mum, Angelina, has told you more than one tale of her Quidditch exploits against the Slytherin team, of the under-handed tricks Selena's father would play. You're sure he's changed, you're sure Selena's not like that, but you doubt your mum or dad will listen. It's bad enough you weren't Sorted into Gryffindor. Hufflepuff's a "load of duffers," as your father once colourfully said in your hearing, and made your ears burn and your shoulders slump in shame.

It's not your fault you aren't brave like your parents. Like Harry Potter, the hero who visits your home all the time, three children in tow. You have nothing in common with any of them. James, the boy who takes after his grandfather, who hates the Snakes and ignores the Puffs. Al, the shy boy in Ravenclaw, who rarely takes his nose out of a book. Lily Luna, the rebel who only landed in Slytherin to anger her parents. They talk and you listen. They fill up a room, and you hide in a corner, fading into the wallpaper.

Your own older brother is in Gryffindor. Carries on the pride of the family name. Even has the trademark Weasley hair. You? No one notices you. To be honest, you kind of like it that way. There's less pressure.

Then one day, Selena stops by you, where you sit hunched on a rock, pretending to study, and smiles at you.

"Hey, Roxanne," she says, and carries on. You sit up, transfixed. _She knows your name._ And the world feels brighter.

"Hey, Selena," you whisper to yourself as your cheeks burn and your knees wobble.

It continues. She never says much, but she always speaks to you, always acknowledges you're there. Not even your brother does that, and you start to wonder why. She's never participated in pranks before, but this has to be a prank, doesn't it? But you can't see how. You start to open up to her when she asks you how you are. Speak briefly, though longingly, about how you hate being in Hufflepuff. How you blend into the wallpaper. You never speak of your feelings, but you're sure your eyes speak for you. She tells you about her day, about the latest gossip. About her life in the Malfoy household, what Scorpius does to tease her.

_I feel like I can be myself around you,_ she says one day, and you feel happier than you have since you were six and got your first training broom. Before your parents unloaded their expectations, their snuffed hopes and dreams, upon you and dreamed of you being the next Quidditch star when truth be told, you hated the game and only liked flying.

Selena likes flying, too, and sometimes you go up on the pitch together, not saying anything as you swoop around the stands, feeling the wind ruffle your hair and squint your eyes. It's a thing you share, something that's _just yours_, and you don't want to trade it for anything.

"I have something to tell you," Selena tells you after one of these sessions, her hair tousled, her expression unusually somber. You feel your breath stop, your heart thudding. This is it. This is when she tells you that she can't stand you, that it's all a trick. That you are worthless to her.

"I really like you, Roxanne," she continues, and it's all you can do to stop yourself from flinging your arms around her and proclaiming your love to the winds and the entire student body.

"I really like you, too," you manage to say instead, and her smile lights up the heavens for you.


	38. Shut Up And Swallow

_Notes: Not-as-graphic-as-it-could-be smuttiness._

You fumble at the waistband of his trousers, unbuttoning them and drawing them down his hips with shaky haste. He's not wearing underwear (does he ever?) and his cock springs free, a drop of pre-come glistening at the tip.

"Suck it," he hisses to you, urgent, and your lips engulf him, always careful not to let your teeth so much as brush against the velvety skin. You don't know what you would do if you bit him-if you _tainted_ him!-but you know you would rather die.

His hands tangle in your hair, so messy, so disheveled, as he presses you to the front of himself. You bob up and down on him, saliva dribbling down your chin. Your knees ache and your cock throbs, restrained as it is behind your robes, but you don't make a move to touch yourself, only using your hands to grip his legs for balance.

"There, that's it," he pants. You increase your ministrations, knowing from long experience that he will come soon, and you must swallow it when he does. And not spill a drop, that's very important, or else he _looks_ at you in that way, and you feel humiliated. Like you're nothing but a whore, and you can't bear it when he does that.

"Remus," he whines, and finally, you feel it, the spurt against the back of your throat, and you swallow as fast as you can, though it bubbles at your lips for a moment.

"Sirius," you whisper, as you lick your lips clean and sit back on your heels, staring up at him. Your arousal is painful, but he's already tugging up his trousers, rearranging his robes in some semblance of order. He won't look at you, and you feel your heart twist in your chest.

"Later, all right?" he tells you, pulling you to your feet with one easy heave and clapping you on the back, like you've simply pulled off a prank together or something, like you don't have the taste of him in your mouth.

You smile and murmur something back, but it's empty, as empty as you are as you pick up your book-bag and find your way to the nearest loo for the only relief you can find.


End file.
